Chapter Fifty-Nine

Ning Yuan's well-defined knuckles paused for a moment, and his fathomless eyes shifted, inch by inch, toward the young man on the corridor. His expression was inscrutable.

"Until we meet again?" Ning Yuan said the words slowly, enunciating each one, his tone revealing not a trace of emotion.

Chú Róng lowered his gaze, unaware of anything amiss.

He was a mortal, and Ning Yuan was a cultivator. They had been no more than chance acquaintances — two people who had always belonged on different paths. Since he was resolved to distance himself from the troubles of the cultivation world, that meant distancing himself from all cultivators.

Still, over these months since his transmigration, Ning Yuan had been one of the very few people who had shown him any goodwill. Chú Róng was entirely sincere in this farewell: "These past months, I've been in Elder's care. I will keep Elder's kindness in my heart. If we are fated to meet again, I will be sure to repay Elder properly."

After the commotion of the Hundred Immortal Sects, the sun had broken through the clouds and risen. Ten thousand rays of rosy light poured down, flooding Wusong Lodge with clear brightness.

A faint halo of light wreathed Chú Róng's figure, making the lustrous, jade-like texture of his skin appear even more fine and translucent. Beneath his deep crimson gauze robes, the arc of his waist came and went in tantalising glimpses.

Ning Yuan stared at that lean waist. The handsome face that usually wore its cold indifference like a mask gave nothing away — yet the words that came out of his mouth caught Chú Róng entirely off guard: "No need to wait for later."

Chú Róng blinked in mild surprise. His raven-wing lashes lifted, and his luminous eyes looked questioningly at the man a few steps away, not quite catching Ning Yuan's meaning.

Ning Yuan had a broad-shouldered, long-legged build that was exceptionally well-made. Even through the white robe, you could see the clean, powerful lines of his muscles beneath. His nose bridge was high and straight. Both of his dark, temperate eyes locked steadily onto Chú Róng as he issued what sounded for all the world like a verdict, his voice cold and low: "You cannot leave."

Qingyang Heavenly Sect was not a good place, and even if Chú Róng hadn't been trying to leave, Ning Yuan would have taken him away. But Chú Róng wanting to return to the mortal realm — that was not acceptable.

The last time Ning Yuan had left for just a few days, Chú Róng had been drugged, and had very nearly lost his dignity and his life. If Chú Róng went back to the mortal realm alone, there was no telling what might happen.

He would not make the same mistake twice. He would never let Chú Róng leave his field of vision by even a single step, ever again.

Chú Róng's brow furrowed lightly. He was growing more and more bewildered. His devastatingly beautiful, pale face showed increasing incomprehension.

The Mountain-Guard Formation had opened. The Heavenly Dao marriage contract had been dissolved. Even the Hundred Immortal Sects who had come to cause trouble had been sent packing. In the short term, no person or matter would stand in his way any further. This was the perfect moment to leave. Why could he not go?

Could there be some obstacle he had overlooked?

Chú Róng's mind began turning rapidly. He reviewed the original text's plot carefully in his head — and yet, after going through everything, he couldn't think of anything that would block his departure.

Chú Róng's lips parted, about to ask for a clear explanation. Ning Yuan half-raised his hand, and the bag was pulled by an invisible force out of his grip and flew into Ning Yuan's palm.

The bag was light — evidently not much had been packed into it. Ning Yuan turned his palm over, and the bag vanished into thin air.

"What are you doing, Elder?" Chú Róng instinctively took a step forward, wanting to take the bag back. Ning Yuan moved toward him, step by step. The overbearing pressure radiating from his entire being leaked out, uncontrolled, by a thread — and the suffocating sensation it created intensified sharply.

Chú Róng was of mortal flesh and blood. Under this pressure, even without an immobilisation technique, his tall, slender body locked up almost at once and became nearly impossible to move. The question rising to his lips jammed itself in his throat.

Only then did Chú Róng truly appreciate just how completely Ning Yuan had been restraining himself in the months before.

Chú Róng pressed his lips together with some difficulty, unable to move, watching as the man walked up to him. Ning Yuan's muscular long arms extended and looped around his waist, like a silent, vast net drawing in without sound, unyielding in their determination, and gathered him into an embrace without taking no for an answer.

Ning Yuan's towering frame easily enveloped Chú Róng. The aggressive male scent wrapped around him again completely. His jade-pale cheek was pressed, by force, against the man's hard chest, and his entire body went stiff as a piece of carved stone.

"Elder?" After the incident with the drug, Chú Róng had grown increasingly averse to anyone getting close to him. Every nerve in his body tensed involuntarily, and he reflexively tried to push the man away.

Ning Yuan tilted his head down slightly. His deep, dark eyes looked at him steadily. The glacial ice in their depths began, piece by piece, to shatter — revealing the scalding, surging undercurrent buried underneath.

Chú Róng's pupils contracted. He recognised that look. Two days ago, Xú Zǐyáng had looked at him exactly the same way.

How could this be?

This was Ning Yuan — how could even he…?

An unprecedented shock filled Chú Róng's entire mind. He was so unable to believe it that he even forgot what he had been about to say. His unusually long lashes trembled beyond his control, like the wings of a butterfly, burrowing straight into the soft places of a person's heart.

Ning Yuan felt a numbing buzz spread through his chest. The arm around Chú Róng tightened involuntarily, pulling him in even more tightly. His voice dropped to the lowest register, and his tone left no room for negotiation — it was the furthest thing from a question: "Róng, come back to Qīngxū Sect with me."

Chú Róng came back to himself. The jade-white skin of his face flushed with a faint, indignant crimson, which only made his face more blindingly beautiful, enough to seize one's very soul: "No. I won't go!"

So much for being the greatest man in the world of cultivation — he was no different from Xú Zǐyáng. They were all cut from the same cloth.

Qīngxū Sect was Ning Yuan's territory. If he went there, how would he ever get out? He had just escaped one den of wolves — he had no desire to walk straight into a tiger's lair.

Chú Róng couldn't fathom why the men in this book, when they had a protagonist of surpassing beauty to love, were instead, one and all, fixating on him. Did they all have some kind of attraction to ugly things?

Ning Yuan's breath caught. He raised his hand and ran his long fingers up the tense line of Chú Róng's jaw, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing uncontrollably. His cold, deep voice was low and hoarse, and the forceful pressure between his brows was enough to make one's heart stutter: "Róng. Don't be wilful."

In recent times, the Mountain-Guard Formations of many sects in the Hundred Immortal Sects had been opened, their spheres of influence overlapping and clashing in a constant struggle. On top of that, the demonic clan had seized the disorder to stir up trouble and fish in murky waters. With only Chú Róng alone, he simply couldn't get out of the cultivation world.

Furthermore, the lingering effects on Chú Róng's body were beyond the ability of any mortal healer to treat. Only in the world of cultivation did any possibility of a cure exist.

Chú Róng had to stay in the world of cultivation. Ning Yuan did not want to use any coercive measures on Chú Róng — a mortal's body was too fragile to withstand them.

Chú Róng felt a sudden crawl rise across his scalp. His throat seemed to swell shut, and he couldn't get out a single word.

Ning Yuan's cultivation was the highest in all of "Tiānyáo Chronicles." The entire Hundred Immortal Sects bowed before him. Chú Róng's usual tactics of arguing his way out were completely useless in front of this man.

If Ning Yuan truly wanted to keep him here by force, Chú Róng could not resist at all, and no one in the Three Realms could come to his rescue.

But Chú Róng was deeply unwilling.

He had waited so long. He was truly reluctant to see all that effort come to nothing. He knew the situation between the immortal sects was complicated — but relying on his knowledge of the plot, avoiding disaster and making it back to the mortal realm shouldn't be too difficult.

Chú Róng's pale lips parted and closed as he struggled to hold onto his composure, finding some difficulty in the words: "What if… I insist on going?"

The tendons in Ning Yuan's long fingers pulled taut. The ice in his eyes that had just begun to melt instantly froze over again, in a way that made the heart tremble.

The next moment, Chú Róng felt his body suddenly lift into the air. The man bent his tall frame and scooped him up into his arms, carrying him toward the room.

The door of the room was still open. Ning Yuan's legs were long and his stride was wide, and in just a few steps he was inside, heading straight for the bed.

The scene of Xú Zǐyáng confining him to the bed two days ago came flooding back from memory all at once. Chú Róng's colour drained away instantly. Anxiety and fear leapt across his nerves, and the composure he had barely managed to hold onto shattered — anyone could see the panic on his face: "Let go of me!"

With his emotions in turmoil, the delicate orchid fragrance from his person floated outward in wisps, stirring an intoxicating disturbance in the senses.

The fragrance of orchid hit Ning Yuan's nostrils all at once. His gaze grew shadowed. The animalistic light burning in his deep, unfathomable eyes nearly erupted on the spot. He leaned forward and sat Chú Róng on the edge of the bed.

Ning Yuan made no effort to contain the pressure that was still leaking from him. Chú Róng could not move, and could only sit there and watch as the man crouched before the bed, his long-boned large hand enclosing his pristine white boot, and slid it off.

The air at this early hour was a little cold. Chú Róng's jade-smooth toes involuntarily curled inward at the abrupt contact with the cold air.

Ning Yuan spread his fingers wide and held both feet by the arch, the warm reddish soles resting in his palms — like a delicate object of pink-carved jade.

Ning Yuan's gaze darkened again. He bowed his head, and his lips moved upward from the tips of the toes, the pressure going from light to heavy. When his breath fell across the top of the foot, he even brought teeth to bear, and the luminous white skin of the instep was quickly scattered with a few petal-like red marks.

"It seems you haven't learned your lesson at all. Yesterday's events — I may as well help you recall what would have happened to you if I hadn't arrived in time."

The man's tall, imposing shadow lay like a heavy mountain across Chú Róng's heart. The dark pupils full of desire seemed as though they could swallow him whole — grim and terrifying.

Chú Róng's heels trembled unsteadily. Every muscle in his body was pulled to its limit, his breathing rapid and disordered. The flush of red at his eye corners visibly deepened, adding a few more layers of intoxicating, captivating colour.

And yet there was nowhere to hide from it.

There was no need for Ning Yuan to remind him — he certainly hadn't forgotten what had happened yesterday.

Chú Róng was genuinely unwilling to revisit those awful images. Watching the man's movements grow increasingly overstepping, he dropped his gaze, his long, dense lashes casting a faint shadow beneath his eyes. He gave in and spoke, his voice a concession: "…I agree."

Those words brought Ning Yuan's movements to an abrupt stop. He raised his fathomless eyes and looked steadily at the person before him.

Chú Róng's lips barely moved, and every word he squeezed out felt like it was burning his throat from the inside: "I'll go back to Qīngxū Sect with you."

Deep disappointment filled Chú Róng's heart. He had never expected that the person who would truly block him from leaving would be Ning Yuan.

Ning Yuan continued to hold the pale wrist in his palm. After a long moment, as though reluctant to let go, he released his grip. He picked up the boot and carefully slid it back onto Chú Róng's foot.

He sat down beside Chú Róng on the bed. His considerable weight pressed the bed frame down, and he stretched his long arm outward, its force carrying an unmistakable dominance that brooked no defiance, locking Chú Róng right back into his arms with nowhere to escape.

Ning Yuan lowered his head, breathing in the delicate fragrance threading through the hair of the person in his arms, his voice low and husky: "Róng, when we get back to Qīngxū Sect, I'll teach you how to cultivate — would that be alright?"

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